Death Rattle

Extranjeros. Long road.

Come for the furs.

No, perhaps … come for horses.

“As likely a place as any,” Williams announced as he reined aside at the front of a long, low-roofed adobe hutch, its front walls marred by none of the small windows pocking other buildings, windows filled with panes of selenite or slates of mica.

No window here. Nothing but the low-beamed, narrow doorway that stood open in the morning sun. Beneath the tiled roof protruded vigas, those pared and peeled logs that poked out beyond the walls, from which hung long ristras of peppers and cloves of garlic. Embedded in the side wall were but a half dozen hitching rings, and room for no more than a few of their horses at what was left of a broken-down hitching rail out front.

“Tie ’em off two-by-two,” Peg-Leg ordered.

That would at least keep their animals from wandering, hitching them nose-to-nose on the open ground at the side of the cantina. And with as many of them as there were, none of the trappers figured any Mexican would dare attempt slipping away with their loose stock.

“Welcome, Yankees!”

At the corner of the building in a patch of shadow stood a tall Mexican, his sunken cheeks deeply pitted with the ravages of some long-ago disease. He was grinning widely, half bowing graciously as he eagerly wiped his hands on the long tail of his coarse, linen shirt he had not cared to tuck inside the waist of his stained leather breeches. Sweeping a long hank of black hair out of his eyes, this older man swept an arm toward the door in a graceful arc.

“Yankees, come!” he repeated.

“Gracias,” Williams replied as he stepped past the Mexican, the first to enter the cantina’s shadowy, cool interior.

As they threaded past the bartender, Elias Kersey whispered to Bass, “He think we’re sailin’ Yankees off one of them ships, eh?”

Before Titus could say a thing, the Mexican suddenly leaped in front of Kersey, smiling warmly and nodding as he gestured toward the open door. “Yankees, si! Come, come—Yankees welcome!”

They flooded in behind Bill Williams, most pausing to soak in, and grow accustomed to, the change from bright light to dimmest shadow. As his eyes adjusted, Titus quickly glanced over the interior, measuring the patrons huddled around their rough-hewn tables. It was plain there weren’t enough chairs or tables to seat all two dozen newcomers. But the cantina owner had already recognized this shortcoming and was clapping his hands together, sending two of his men to bring out several thick blankets they unfurled onto the hard, clay floor.

“Sientense ustedes, por favor!” all three of the cantinamen repeated, indicating the blankets they spread at the foot of two walls of the long, low room.

While some of the trappers settled in the last of the chairs at the few open tables, most collapsed onto the floor, filling the offered blankets, where they leaned back against the wall, eyeing the jugs and jars on the double shelf resting behind the long, open-faced bar. Every wall had been painted with jaspe, that whitewash the Mexicans concocted from a selenite compound they burned in their hornos, or beehive ovens, then mixed with water. The thick paste was then spread by hand on the walls and finished off by brushing the jaspe with a patch of sheepskin. To keep the brittle whitewash from rubbing off on customers, the Mexicans had draped mantas, or printed muslins, about halfway up the walls. The crude but unpretentious decor so reminded Titus of his visits to Gertrude Barcelos’s brothel in long-ago and faraway Taos.

With the strained, too-quiet atmosphere that morning as the Americans settled, Bass was drawn to the owner’s nervous stutter as the older man leaned on the table where Smith and Williams sat with Thompson and their Indian guide.

“What’s he telling you?” Bill demanded of his partner.

Peg-Leg explained, “He says the Injun gotta go—says he don’t serve Injuns here.”

Thompson immediately hissed, “This damned Mex don’t have no right to tell us he won’t serve our friend, Peg-Leg. You let this son of a bitch know we could tear his place to the ground with our hands—”

“Such hooligan actions wouldn’t be a good idea, fellas.”

Turning as one, all two dozen watched a large, roundish man with fleshy jowls bristling with thick, graying sideburns get to his feet back in the shadows, then stride in their direction as the cantina owner nodded to the man and pivoted and shuffled back to the bar.

Thompson shot to his feet, growling, “Who the hell are you to be telling—”

“Cap’n Janus C. Smathers,” the stranger announced as he came to a stop at Smith’s table. His thumbs were hung in the armpits of his ample vest sewn from a dark blue wool, at least twenty tiny brass buttons straining in their holes strung down the flap.

“You’re ’Merican?” Peg-Leg asked in disbelief.

With a nod, Smathers swept his arm toward two tables of men tucked back in a shadowy corner. “All of us. American, like you. Adventurers, to be sure.”

Williams held out his hand and introduced himself. “Bill Williams, M.T.”

Smathers cocked his head, asking, “What’s an M.T.?”

“Master trapper,” Bill answered proudly.

“You’re fur hunters, I take it,” Smathers replied. “Here to search the coastline for otter?”

“Maybeso,” Williams answered.

“Listen, fellas,” Smathers began. “The governor down at San Diego frowns on Americans coming into California to harvest California furs then haul them right back out of here to parts unknown.”

“You an’ the governor don’t need to fret none. We won’t be going down near this here San Diego,” Thompson snipped.

“Best advice I could give you is don’t say a thing about coming to California for furs,” Smathers advised, turning away from the antagonism of Thompson. “And be wary of causing any trouble that would bring attention to yourselves.” He glanced quickly at Frederico. “In that respect, it will be best if you take the Indian outside. These Californios don’t like any wild Indians from across the mountains taking liberties that the Indians around here don’t have out of hand.”

“Oh, he ain’t a wild Injun from across the mountains,” Smith snorted. “Frederico here’s a mission Injun.”

Smathers’s eyes grew big, and he flicked a look at the Mexicans nearby as they were placing clay cups on several small wooden platters atop the bar. “Good God—he’s a mission slave?”

“Runaway—”

“Don’t say another word about him!” Smathers warned with a snap. “If you want to keep him and you value his life, take him out of here and hide him where you can. An Indian spotted here in the village is something that will soon draw the wrong kind of attention.”

Smith asked, “They ain’t ’llowed to come to town? Can’t have a drink?”

“Right on both counts,” Smathers explained. “They’re slaves. I’ve been coming to California for eleven years already, make a trip around the cape every year. In all that time, I’ve still to make peace with most of how these people live here. But me and my seafarers are visitors, so we haven’t any say.”

“Thanks, Cap’n,” Williams said as he stood and stepped around the table to prop his hand on the Indian’s shoulder. “Tell ’im why he’s gotta leave, Peg-Leg. Tell ’im he has to stay outside to watch the horses. We’ll bring him some likker later on.”

Once Smith finished his explanation, Frederico glanced up at Williams, then the ship’s captain, and eventually stood. He started for the door beside Williams without a word of protest.

“These Californios ain’t like us,” Smathers declared as the old trapper led the young Indian outside. “There’s one church here—they’re all Papists you know. And that one church rules those who run the government with an iron fist. It’s a closed society, gentlemen—and a culture where Americans are welcome only if they toe the line and don’t commit any act against their religion or their laws.”

“A lot like Taos and Santy Fee,” Bass said as he stopped near the table.

Smathers regarded Titus a moment, then said, “I don’t doubt that, mister. Never been either place myself, but I have no reason not to believe one part of Mexico would be any different from another part.”